The Weight Of Us
by ScatterKindness
Summary: Daisy is on the run from herself. Believing that she is a monster, she drifts from town to town, fighting crime and hoping for redemption. James Barnes is on the run to find himself. If he looks hard enough, he hopes he can rediscover himself, and maybe set things right. In a chance encounter, can they both find what they are looking for?
1. Daisy

My eyes blink open to sunlight streaming through my window. It takes me a moment to remember where I am and why I'm here. The old hotel, with the bearded man with white hair I'd met yesterday, when I'd asked for a room. The bag I'd carried, with the stolen money in it. The phone I'd had to throw out because Coulson kept calling.

I stand up and walk to the shower, turn the water on, let it try to wash away everything, but it can't. The bruises, the scars, the pain, they'll be there for the rest of my life.

I step out of the shower and dress. Underclothes, S.H.I.E.L.D. suit, H.I.V.E.. Wrap my arms, my team. Clip on my weapons, Lincoln. Take my bone growth pills, how could I?

I grab my things, that aren't really mine, and leave. Again, another place for another night, before I have to leave again, because how could I stay?

I start my van again and look out through the windshield. I flash back, Jemma, handing me the figurine of a hawaiian dancer.

My radio sends a burst of static through the van. A robbery, five blocks from me. So I go, because I can't save Tripp, or my mother, or the little boy who got stuck in the crossfire of a S.H.I.E.L.D fight two months ago, but I can save someone. Maybe, maybe I can do something good.

The robbery is in full swing when I arrive. I park my van a block away and run the rest. The ground begins to shake as I rush forward. I push against the air, ignoring the pain in my arms, and send four of the masked men into a wall. I walk up to another one and knock him out with one punch, then send the last man flying.

I can hear the police sirens drawing near. I step outside and push the air against the ground, sending me flying upward, away, toward safety.

Another hotel, with another owner who is welcoming. But I won't stay. Another job, another fight I win. More bruises and scars, pain in my broken arms. More scratches and scraps and blood on my clothes, on my hands.

I move again and again. I didn't eat yesterday or this morning, but I don't need to, someone is starving. I'll be okay.

Is this the best this city has? I want an equal, someone to fight, and I don't care if I lose.

I move again. I forgot what it was like to have a home, a family. But I deserve this, because how could I? I'm the monster parents hide their kids from, not the hero Coulson thought I could be. I'm the criminal S.H.I.E.L.D. tries to catch, not the one they try to save.

Another hotel, another day another call, but this time it's different. I'm not the agent who left eight months ago. I haven't taken care of myself, haven't eaten, haven't slept. Given myself just enough to keep going, and I've kept going until now.

Another robbery, except now I can't use my powers, except now I am weak, except now I am meeting my equal. The punches come.

I block the first one and send a man sprawling into a wall. I kick the next man and duck the fist swinging over my head. I grab his arm and flip him over. Everything in slow motion. We dance. They swing, then I do, back and forth until I win.

Out of breath I stand amongst their unconscious bodies, bodies left in my wake. Someone could say they were an accident, but I sought them out, because I'm still the monster, even after everything. I won, except I didn't.

There is one man left, in the shadows behind me. I don't realize until his gun goes off. Two bullets pierce my body, and I fall. I can see the sky. As it gets blurry, I can hear Coulson's voice in my mind, telling me everything is going to be alright, and it is because I won't be a monster anymore.

I black out. Blood is flowing freely from my wounds, I deserve this.


	2. Bucky

My vision blurs around the edges. I'm staring so hard at that face. It looks like mine, only different. The hair is shorter, the smile is brighter, the eyes are shining. He looks happy.

I can't remember feeling like that in a long time. I remember cold and pain. The strange words that slip off my tongue and into the world without my permission. Learning smiles and mission reports. Breathe and stay calm.

I wish I could feel like this man with my face did, just to have the memory to hold on to. My feet carry me away from the huge building and into the world beyond. I let them take me to wherever it is they want to go.

Sirens of a police car rush by and I flinch, in the loud noise I hear screaming. The cold starts to creep around my brain, my skin raises in goosebumps. I shiver in the warm sunlight of the day and try to keep the flashback at bay, they never bring anything good. Breathe and push it back, don't let it in.

I keep walking. The museum says my name is James Barnes, if that man is really me.

I remember. But I'm not the man from the museum. They call him a hero, and of all the things I'm not sure of I know I'm not a hero. Heroes save people, and all I remember is death.

The day passes slowly as I fight the familiar battle of staying in control. Breathe and forget, don't get triggered by the cars, or the man with his hands in his pockets, or the women who is whispering. Don't tense up when the man reaches into his pocket to pull out a phone, don't freeze when a little girl tells you she's lost. Breathe and stay in control, don't run when the car pulls too close, or someone begins to shout. Don't flinch when someone brushes me, don't take the long way everywhere so no one can follow.

Breathe and remember what is important, my name is James Barnes, someone called me Bucky. Steve called me Bucky. I remember his face, a clear picture in my mind. He was my friend. The picture in my mind grew bloodied and battered. Steve. Breathe and stay calm.

Rebecca. No, no don't go there. Rebecca. No. Stop.

Breathe in, breathe out. My name is James Barnes. I was in the army. I was in Hydra, I was Hydra, their face, their fist, their secret weapon, their resurrection.

Breathe in, breathe out.

I am James Barnes. I liked to smile, and eat food, and tease Steve. I was one of the good guys.

Breathe and get it together, keep walking, head down, arms in pockets. Go back to the abandoned house I fixed and stay there until I have to leave again.

What am I doing?

Breathe and lay in bed, knowing sleep won't come. Climb out of bed in the morning. Breathe, splash cold water on my face. Breathe, step outside and wonder around. Breathe and keep going, just keep going. Don't be suspicious, don't cause problems. Breathe, be in control.

But why? Why breathe? What would it matter if I stop? Breathe. Steve would want that. You don't even know Steve, I internally yell at myself. Don't breathe, but stay in control because if you don't people will get hurt, people will die.

Walk, keep going. Slip from a restaurant I don't eat at and keep walking. Breathe and don't make it worse. Don't hurt anyone else.

Darkness has fallen when I start my walk back to my house, through the town. Breathe, check the corners for enemies. Breathe and keep walking, get back to the house, and then it can all be over.

But I don't get there. There is a fight, at a bank two blocks from my house. About six to one.

I freeze, my heart pounds. Panic is rising in my throat. Breathe and run. But I freeze, I watch from the shadows. There is a winner, then someone steps from the shadows behind her and fires a gun. Two shots.

 _Assess threat, no orders. Leave. Don't jeopardize the secrecy of Hydra._

I shake my head, shut up. My hand tightens around the knife. _Don't engage, don't engage._ I throw it. Shut up Hydra.

The man with the gun falls, the knife buried in his chest.

Breathe and do what? I step out and hover just outside the crime scene. What did I just do?

Breathe and make a plan. I can run or help. Hydra says _run_. What do I say? I don't know.

I stay. I kneel next to the girl who was shot. She's wearing a black suit with an eagle symbol. I know that one, it's S.H.I.E.L.D..

 _Run_ Hydra screams in my head. No, I am going to stay. She's bleeding.

I hesitate.

 _Run_ Hydra screams again. I pick her up in my arms and carry her to my house. I lay her on the bed.

I hesitate again. I don't fix things, I break them. Breathe, I got this far.

She has a gunshot wound on her stomach. I undo the top of her suit, leaving her in a black tank top and pull that up to reveal her wound. There's blood. But you didn't do this, I tell myself.

I walk toward the door. I can't do this. I pinch myself. Breathe and walk back. Idiot, help the girl who's bleeding out. Breathe, I can do this.

I retrieve a first aid kit from the bathroom. I used a pair of tweezers to remove the bullet. I clean the wound and stitch it up, I dress it and wrap it. Excellent, except she has another bullet wound in her left shoulder. I repeat the same process and stand back to admire my work.

She is still alive. I should call someone. 911? That sounds right. Except I don't really know how. I could ask someone, but that would cause more problems.

I shift her so she has pillows under her head and blankets around her legs.

Now what? Breathe, and take it slow, she'll leave soon. Maybe she can help me. Breathe and let it be okay.


	3. Daisy 2

Darkness is cool and sweet, relief from the life I have been half living. But then the pain comes, slow at first, then surrounding me, robbing me of my peace and forcing me to realize that unfortunately I am not dead.

But I should be. I deserve it, because how could I?

I resist. I beg to stay in the rolling waves of darkness but slowly I am pulled from my darkness to the world I no longer want a part of. I can feel the bullet wound in my stomach and one in my shoulder. They have been bandaged. Pain radiates off them, seeping into the rest of my body. I embrace the pain, wish it to intensify, for the darkness to take me back.

My eyes blink open to a white ceiling. The paint is chipping, and the white is turning cream in some places. I try to sit up, but the pain holds me back.

"Take it easy," says a male voice from off to my right.

I try to sit up again, alert at the sudden possible threat. The man comes to sit at my right side.

"You're going to make it worse, you know," he says.

"Who are you?" I can barely get the words out.

He takes a minute to respond. "James Barnes," he says.

My brain is fuzzy, but the name clicks. "Like James Barnes, as in Bucky?" I ask. Excitement begins to bubble up inside me without my permission. I force it down again. This could be Captain America's best friend Coulson.

Stop, I tell myself, but my brain finishes the sentence anyway. Coulson fangirled over Captain America. Stop, I tell myself again, don't think about it.

His face swims into my vision, shoulder length hair, scruffy unshaven face, old jeans and worn out t-shirt. Bucky, Captain America Bucky. Of all people.

"Huh," I say without really meaning it. "Aren't you dead?"

He frowns at me.

"I am not presently dead," he pauses. "Thank you for asking."

"Okay," I say slowly.

"What is your name?" He changes the subject.

"Daisy," I reply.

"How do you feel?" he asks.

"Like I got shot," I push myself up on my elbows slowly. "You know Captain America?"

I can feel my old self trying to push through the layers of guilt and pain that have taken hold of me. He frowns at me again.

"Go back to sleep," he says and walks away.

"Hey," I call after him, "You can't just walk away."

"Watch me," he calls back.

I growl in frustration.

"Bucky," I call, then almost instantly he's back, his hands around my throat choking me.

"Don't call me that." His voice is low and his eyes frighteningly blank.

I try to nod. "Okat," I gasp. He releases me and walks away.

"Why am I here?" I call after him. "You save me to kill me?"

"Hydra didn't want me to." Then he's gone.

"Okay," I mutter to myself.

This is great, just great. I try to remember everything I know about Captain America's Bucky, but I'm still not entirely sure this is Captain America's Bucky. He could just be crazy. I relax back on the pillow behind me and ponder my next move. I am confined to the bed, injured. My body will take time to heal, especially since I haven't been taking care of it. I give myself two weeks until I leave, assuming Bucky doesn't kill me before then.

But then again what does it matter anyway. I deserve to be dead. I should be dead, should have died in that plane, should have paid for my mistakes. I should have been an outcast, should have been thrown out, hated for what I did. Mack shouldn't have forgiven me, I didn't deserve that. Fitz shouldn't have given me his coat, because I deserve to be cold. Lash shouldn't have given his life to get me back, Lincoln shouldn't have died.

How could I let this happen? How could I?

I can remember a fuzzy picture in the back of my mind, a girl in a dress and boots and a box in her arms, and she handed over the keys to her van to a stranger. Handed over her freedom and her life to a stranger because he had wanted her, risked his reputation for her, because she had wanted to. That girl didn't know anything. Didn't know pain, or loss, or even love. That girl asked for an adventure and boy did she get one. She didn't know then what she would become. I laugh at her, at Skye. She thought she was invincible, and everything would work out in the end. But Daisy learned the hard way. How could I let this happen? My team, my family, they paid the price of my mistakes. How could I go so wrong? Mess up so bad? Hurt so many people? How could anyone forgive me? How can I ever forgive myself?

I squeeze my eyes shut and press my fingers to my temples. The tears creep in my eyes, but I refuse to let them out. I had wanted to be an agent so bad, I had gotten everything I wanted. But I had ruined it all.

The guilt sits on my chest, crushing the breath out of my lungs, how could I? Coulson. I gag and roll on my side.

I push up on my elbow and brush my hair behind my ears. I force myself to take a breath. Don't think about it, not yet. Just heal, and then you can pay for what you did, I tell myself. I'm sorry Coulson, I whisper to myself, but that's all because how could I say anything else?


	4. Bucky 2

I watch her sleep for a while. I can remember watching other people sleep. Targets, people I was told to take out. People I had killed.

I walk out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. The flashback hits me without warning. I slam against the wall as the images flash through my head.

A woman, with dark hair, and eyes kind of like Daisy, a politician I think. Pierce gave me the order to take her out, so I did, along with her family. The screaming is splitting my head. I can see the blood and it's turning my vision red. She is pleading, begging me, but I don't. I finish my mission.

I blink, back in my house again. I am crouched on the floor. Sweat soaks my whole body and I am shivering. Breathe, and get it together.

I have a splitting headache and red spots dance in my eyes. Breathe, find control. I suck in a breath, suddenly remembering that I haven't taken one in a while. Breathe, remain in control. I can't think, my world is spinning, the floor feels as though it is falling away.

"Yo, dead guy," a voice calls from behind me. "You okay?"

I turn around, falling awkwardly to a sitting position. I see Daisy sitting up in bed, watching me through the open bedroom door. I

try to nod, but suddenly I am back in the chair, Pierce standing over me, asking me for a mission report. The women and her family are dead. He smiled, and I asked him why I had had to kill her family to. I remember the children clearer now, the little girl with the gunshot wound in her forehead, and the little boy who had looked like Steve. Pierce smiled that smile, the one without warmth, the one he would never show to the public. He leaned closer until his face was directly in front of mine.

"One day you'll understand", he said. "One day you'll see the immense impact you've made, and then you'll know the greatness we've given you."

Then he walked away as the bands on my arms and legs tightened, and the chair began to recline. My heart began to race faster and faster, my breath coming in gasps and sweat beginning to form on my hairline. The chair reached horizontal and the machine came around my head, the guard in my mouth.

It started slow, like a prick at the back of my head. Then my nerves felt as though they were full of fire. It raced through my veins, stabbing at everything it could find. The images flashed through my mind. At first I tried to focus on them, tried to remember them. But they came too fast, making me sick. My head felt as though it were going to explode, every neuron firing pain. And the pain settled in every part of my body, I was awful, I wanted to die, but it only got worse and worse until it all began to fade. Then it was gone, black and cold which was nice because I hadn't realized it but I was burning. And I was empty, alone, and confused when I opened my eyes in a shiny new cell, and Pierce smiling at me with his cold smile.

Daisy's voice brought me back. She is calling to me, to see if I am alright. I stand, leaning against the wall, still shaking and sweating profusely. The blood rushes to my head as I step forward, leaving me dizzy. I stagger to the chair by her bedside, and sink into it, my head falling to my knees.

"Are you okay?" she asks

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," I lie.

"You don't look fine," she comments.

"You don't look fine either," I say. "You really shouldn't be sitting up."

I straighten up, the side effects of the flashback mostly gone. Daisy looks back at me, a fierce determination in her face. Her face is very pale, and sweat is beginning to form on her hairline from the effort of holding herself up.

"What happened?" she asks.

"Flashback," I say. She is watching me closely.

"Why are you here?" she asks.

"Why are you so nosy?" I ask, standing up. "You sleep more, and maybe, if you're lucky, we'll talk again tomorrow."

I leave the house. As I walk down the street I wonder what Steve is doing right now. What he would think of what I am doing, saving someone. This doesn't mean all is forgiven, I remind myself. Is that what I keep looking for I ask myself, forgiveness? Or is it closure? Or security? Or reassurance? Maybe deep down I just keep longing for someone to care. It's been so long since someone cared. Steve had cared. So had Rebecca.

The name stabs in my heart. Her face hadn't been at the museum. There had been a plaque, but it didn't say much. Rebecca, she had been my sister. I remember her curly brown hair and her laughing eyes. I remember pulling her braids and sneaking from her bowl of cookie dough. I remember loving her, so, so much.

I shake myself from my thoughts, because the one thing I know for sure is she's not coming back, and it hurts to think about her. Its night and everything is closed, so I break into the pharmacy, careful to not set off any alarms. I grab some pain medication and bring them back to the house.

Daisy was asleep. I regard the situation for a moment. Shaking her would cause her pain, a loud noise would be annoying, I momentarily consider a bucket of cold water, but that would be too messy. I'm deeply annoyed that this decision is causing me so much time so I just say, "Daisy."

She groans as she wakes up and regards me with sleepy eyes.

"What?" she asks, annoyed. "You told me to sleep."

"Here."

I hand her some pills and a glass of water. She takes them and then lays back down to sleep. I lay down on the couch. It's more uncomfortable than I had originally figured. I wiggle around to find a better way to lay, but it just gets more uncomfortable. Finally, I force myself to lay still, accepting the fact that I now hate the couch. I recap the day in my mind like a mission report, ending with an injured S.H.I.E.L.D. agent in my care, take that Hydra.


	5. Daisy 3

Everything is black, then a ray of light breaks the gloom. Slowly the light filters into my vision and the room comes into focus.

I blink, my brain lagging behind. I could be anywhere, an old motel, an abandoned basement, a S.H.I.E.L.D. hideout, but I'm not. It comes back to me. The robbery with the man I didn't see, the one with the gun, the former World War II soldier, ex Hydra assassin, friend of Captain America who for some reason saved me, the outburst that made me question his purpose, the flashback that made me question his sanity, and bullet wounds that constantly remind me of my mistakes.

I groan and force myself to breathe, trying to fight the overwhelming feeling of claustrophobia that takes ahold of me. For the last eight months I've been free from rules, the restraints of working with someone. I've been able to keep moving, to avoid certain places, certain thoughts, certain conversations. I've been bouncing from place to place whenever I wanted, struggling to outrun the crushing guilt and failure that will find me if I let it, if I stay and that scares me.

I slowly ease myself up to a sitting position. The medication Bucky gave me last night help to numb the pain, but moving causes sharp pain to shoot through my body under the bandages. I sit in the rickety twin bed my, back against the headrest. My suit has been unzipped and pulled down to my waist leaving me in a black tank top.

I pull it up to examine Bucky's work on my wounds. The one on my stomach is oozing almost through the bandage he applied. When I peel it back I find that he has cleaned it and stitched it up. To the best of my knowledge he has also removed the bullet. From what I can feel with my hands the shot in my shoulder has been handled the same way.

The house is quiet. From my place I can see through the door into the living room and a sliver of the kitchen past that. I pull off the covers and swing my feet carefully off the bed. My shoes are by the side of the bed. Bucky left a glass of water on the bed side table. I slowly push myself to my feet, bracing myself for the wave of dizziness that hits me. My body feels weak and heavy as I shuffle my way to the bathroom inside the bedroom. I flick on the lights, blinking away the black spots that dance in my eyes. There is a thick pair of sweatpants and a black t shirt.

I begin to wobble on my feet and decide that a shower is out of the question. Instead, I ease my aching body out of my suit. It sticks to my skin with old sweat and dried blood. I have to peel it in places where it has sunken into open cuts and scrapes. I let the suit fall to the ground and lean against the sink to catch my breath. I look into the mirror at the face covered in scrapes, bruises, and dirt, the sunken cheeks and hollow empty eyes. She doesn't look like me, the girl in the mirror. She looks sad and broken as if her burden is too great to carry.

I use water from the sink and towels I found in the cupboard to clean up. When my skin is clean, I use tweezers from a drawer to pull out splinters and pieces of gravel from my arms and knees. I put ointment that Bucky had left out on open cuts and scrapes, and use most of his bandaids on top. I wash my hair as best I can in the sink and dry it with a fresh towel.

My whole body is trembling by the time I am done. I wear the same underclothes but gratefully slide on Bucky's oversized t shirt and sweatpants. I feel the smile creeping on my face as I see that he also left me a pair of fluffy socks. When I'm dressed I slowly stoop and scoop up my dirty suit and bring it back into the bedroom. I fold it and leave it on a chair by the bed.

The exhaustion hits me hard. My vision gets blurry and pain rips through my shaking body. My knees give out and I sink to the ground, my back to the bed. I try to breath as the world spins, slowly fading away from me. I have pushed so far, I shouldn't have, but I have taught myself to keep going because I deserve pain.

My body goes limp. My brain can barely compute that the door to the front door is opening and someone is walking toward me. I can vaguely feel the hands on my arms, the fingers checking my pulse, the hand on my forehead. Someone speaking but the words bounce off my brain as though it is the pillow. I barely notice the strong arms that scoop me up and lay me gently on the bed. Everything fades out to black.

The first thing I realize when light comes back to my vision is that someone is talking. The voice is soft and gentle, soothing the fear and tension in my body. I let myself be calm. My fingers are tingling and numb, my skin feels sensitive as if any touch might bruise it, and my whole body is sore, with deep aches in my bones. My head pounds as I force my eyes open. The voice stops as the world spins into focus.

"For the record," says the voice which sounds less kind and more annoyed. "That was exactly what I meant by making it worse. You don't listen to anyone, do you?"

I ignore him.

"So how do you feel?"

"What am I supposed to call you?" I change the subject.

He leans forward and I can see the contemplation on his face from my place on the pillows. He scrunches his nose.

"Not Bucky, or Buck, or Barnes," he says.

"Okay," I say. "How about James?"

"Good," he replies.

"How about Jimm-" I start.

"No," he cuts me off. "Absolutely not."

The smile creeps on my face.

Talking is hard work, sweat is beginning to form on my hairline and my body temperature is rapidly changing from too hot to too cold as chills begin to rack my already weak body. For the first time I see concern flicker on his face. He reaches over and feels my forehead with the back of his hand to check my temperature. By how cold his hand feels on my skin I assume I have a fever, but I don't care anymore. I am drifting away again to the easy world of sleep where there is no pain or responsibility or guilt to hunt me down. James pulls the blankets up around my chin. The last thing I see is his back as he leaves the room before the darkness pulls me away.


	6. Bucky 3

**I do not own anything. The backstory for Bucky in this fanfiction is to the best of my knowledge fictional and should not be considered actual Marvel facts.**

I slip the phone out of the hidden inner pocket of my jeans. My worn fingers trace its smooth surface. My mind works over the possibilities, the conversations I will never have, the faces I might never see again. I flip the phone open. The small screen illuminates one name. Steve Rogers.

I glance back into the bedroom. Daisy's small form is shivering under the many blankets I piled on top of her. Since I fell off that train, my whole life has been about destroying things, hurting people, killing them. I don't know how to fix things, how to help people. Steve was always so good at helping people, at knowing what they needed. Maybe it was because he knew what it was like to be on the bottom.

I look back down at the phone. I'd spent a lot of time just staring at the screen since I moved into this apartment. It would be so easy to push the button, but something stopped me everytime. I don't know how to help Daisy, but Steve could. I decide to let it be.

The house is quiet. It always is. It's a really small place set about two miles from the quiet town of Byvale. There is the occasional adventurous car that will speed down the dirt road, but usually it is peaceful.

I stand frozen in the living room. The breeze tickles the trees outside the window to my left. The clock on the wall in the kitchen ticks and tocks. Everything is quiet except for the tick and tock of the clock and the creak of the window , and someone off in the distance.

"Bucky!" a merry female voice. "The pie is just out of the oven."

I look up. There is nothing but grass, roads, and the dust that is accumulating on the shelf.

"Bucky, before Steve comes over you should really clean your room," the voice teases me. I open my mouth but someone else speaks, and I recognize the voice. Its mine.

"Sure Mom, I spent all night getting it ready."

"I did," I whisper, the memory coming back to me. "I spent all night getting it ready."

The bed had been left unmade and wood shavings littered the floor. The day before had been my birthday, I'd been twelve. My father had given me a pocket knife. I remember how smooth it was in my hands, how sharp it was as it sliced the skin on my finger. I'd found a stick and stayed up all night carving it into a whistle. I was going to give it to Steve, and then I was going to make one for myself so we could call out to each other. I knew he would like that.

I blink, my house had been wood. The floor had been waxed every Saturday, and the door was sturdy. There had been a bookshelf in the back office room, and there was always bread rising on the counter. It was an apartment, two stories up, and Steve used to come over all the time. We'd sleep on the floor in the living room and eat popcorn and throw pillows at each other and laugh into the night.

My memory gurgled, the face was blurry in my mind. Light brown hair half up half down, blue eyes, and rosy lips. She smiled at me from far away.

"This is my son," she said, so proud of the boy in front of me. "Meet Steve."

Cold began to seep into my body I could hear Pierce's voice in the back of my head,

"Wipe him again."

I'd fought and screamed but eventually I'd stopped because no one could save me.

My surroundings come back into focus. Every muscle tense, every sense dialed to ten. I can hear the insect buzzing just outside the window, the shallow breathing from Daisy's sleeping form. I can feel the humidity in the air, smell the lingering scent of food from the kitchen.

Goosebumps rise on my skin. My eyes zero in on a scratch on the shelf across from me. The humid air begins to choke me and I leave the house. I run down the road away from the town, my mind a mess of thoughts, memories struggling to break the surface. I run and run, sweat pouring down my face, my feet pounding against the dirt road. I begin the reformation that I'd started in a Hydra cell.

My name is James Buchanan Barnes.

My friends call me Bucky. The words I haven't found for months, haven't spoken for years. They come now. I say them again and again.

I live in Brooklyn.

I have a sister and a mother and a father.

I have a best friend named Steve.

I believe in the best of people, and no matter what happens I am loyal to my country and to my family.

Nothing can change that.

I love plums, pie, and steak.

My favorite part of school is recess.

I'm the class clown.

I love jokes and pranks.

I love when people laugh.

And I love Rebecca's cookies, and that red coat she would wear to church, and when her hair was in two braids instead of one.

I love Steve, he's like my brother and I would do anything for him, anything so he could be happy.

And I-

I stop running. Tears have found their way down my face. I look up at the sky.

"And I miss it," the words fall out of my mouth. Angry words, because someone stole my life from me. "I miss Brooklyn, and my mom and dad, and Rebecca, and Steve. I miss plums and cookies and practical jokes. I miss, I miss-"

I pant, "I miss laughing, so much." I put my hands on my head and sink to my knees in the road. "I miss everything, and I hate not knowing everything."

I force myself to breathe. To try to unmuddle my mind. I could feel just below the surface emotion. I remember being happy and that makes me angry. So angry that Hydra had taken everything away from me.

I stand up and begin the walk home. Other memories push against the surface. Pieces of my puzzle trying to connect the empty parts in my mind. But for the first time I feel like I'm getting better. I am going to be okay. As I walk down the road another piece comes back to me. I can see Rebecca's smile.


	7. Daisy 4

My world is darkness with flashes of orange and yellow behind my eyelids. My skin is over sensitive, every touch sends pain shooting sharply through my body. I am not really awake, but I can't slip away either.

I stay, my body at war with itself, and just breathe, until eventually the orange and yellow stop flashing and I finally rest. My cloudy dark vision tunnels and I see Lincoln first, walking toward me through the fog.

"You didn't mean to, I know, my love," he says. "But you did it, and now everything we hoped for, well, we never will grow old together."

The scene changes, sharpens and I'm standing in the S.H.I.E.L.D. base. May is standing in the turn of the hallway talking to someone I can't see just around the corner.

"Your daughter did this," she says, gesturing to the destruction I'd caused when I destroyed the base under Hive's control, "Will you still call her your daughter?"

I expect the man who steps out to be my father, Cal, but its not, it's Coulson.

"I wanted to believe her," he whispers. He looks up and sees me. His eyes widen. "Daisy? How could you?"

The hurt in his voice breaks my heart. May pulls a gun and points it at me.

"Stay where you are," her voice is calm and even like she's talking to a threat.

"May," I say, my hands up in surrender. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"You're a weapon," she says, "That's what you do, you hurt people."

I spin around. The rest of my team surrounds me, the smoldering base fading into the backround.

"Oh Tremors," Mack says. "I wanted to believe there was still good in you."

"There is, Mack," I plead him.

"Daisy," Jemma's voice shakes. "We could have helped you."

"How could you leave us?" Fitz voice betrays his hurt.

"I thought you were better than that." Bobbi sharpens a knife threateningly as she speaks.

"I tried!" I gasp for breath.

"You could never be a part of my team," Coulson says as he steps forward.

My dream flashes, I'm beating up Mack, kissing Hive, then fighting him and Lincoln. The dot on the monitor stops blinking, and my dream falls silent.

A meadow, beautiful with blurry edges, and Lincoln, he's sitting there, on a picnic blanket, waiting for me. I join him.

"Once upon a time, huh?" He looks at me. "If you saved me, this could have been real."

"I wanted that," I said. "I tried to stop you."

"You didn't try hard enough. You failed me." He pulls a gun and points it at me. "You deserve this." The gun goes off.

My eyes fly open. My lungs refuse to expand. My clammy hands grasp at the blankets around my neck that now feel like they are choking me. I stay like that, frozen, wanting to move, to run, to say something, to say I'm sorry. Breathing would also be nice, but I can't inhale.

Eventually my breath comes back and I force my pained lungs to rise and fall in somewhat of a rhythm. I reach up and push my sweaty hair off my forehead. My fever has broken and my body temperature is beginning to regulate again. The pain in my wounds has dulled to an ache instead of a scream, and I am beginning to feel hungry again.

All good signs. I'll be out of here soon, I think to myself. I groan as I push myself up to a sitting position. I down the glass of water left by my bedside and recline on the pillows to contemplate my next move, anything to not think about my dream, it will plague me enough later. Another hotel, more strangers. I'll carry on I guess. I'll wear my bruises and my scars. They are as scary as the gun I wear in my belt.

Maybe one day I'll return to the base that I once called home to tell someone how I met Capatin America's friend. Maybe that's how I'll repay Bucky for his kindness. Maybe that's what I'll fix that could let me live with the mistakes I've made.


	8. Bucky 4

**I do not own anything. The backstory for Bucky in this fanfiction is to the best of my knowledge fictional and should not be considered actual Marvel facts.**

My fingers twitch on the table. I glare at them, annoyed that I can't seem to keep them still.

I sigh, pushing myself out of the chair I've been trying to sit still in for what feels like hours. I lean on the door frame to the bedroom, Daisy's infection seems to have past, and her breathing is normal.

I shift my weight, trying to organize my brain. Ever since yesterday when those memories came back to me it is like I've woken up. Everything is clear, and though some parts are still missing I have enough to feel something concrete again.

My muscles seem to twitch under my skin, begging me to use them. I feel strong, ready for something, I'm just not sure what, and it's making me go stir crazy.

Finally I relent. I hastily write a note for Daisy in case she wakes up before I'm back. I burst out the door and onto the road. I sprint, the wind pushing back my long hair, my lungs filling with the fresh air. I feel like a kid again racing through the tall grass and weaving through trees. I can feel from deep in my chest a laugh forcing it way to the surface.

I come to a stop in front of a small pond and I dive, the rocky bottom scraping at my chest under my shirt. My eyes open in the murky green water and my fingers stretch out through the liquid as though trying to grasp it. I stay at the bottom until I need air and then a little longer until I am choking and coughing when I come up. I laugh into the warm breeze, looking up at the sky. Somewhere off to my left someone clicks a stopwatch. I whirl but no one is there.

"Soldier," a harsh man's voice rings out all too familiar. "That was pathetic, do it again." Suddenly I can feel the water seeping into my lungs, my arms frantically fighting the water closing in. The resolve forming in the pit of my stomach as I force myself to swim down, to swim away from the surface, with its firm ground and sweet air. Forcing my hand to reach out, to brush the bottom and grasp the small box. To swim up again as my vision begins to dim fading out and the panic returns as I realize that the surface is too far away. But I make it. Gagging on the water that found its way into my lungs, retching up whatever is left in my stomach, until finally I take a breath of sweet fresh air that soothes the panic and allows my vision to come back. And then the package is ripped from my hand and tossed back into the deep pit of water. More reprimanding from the man they call my trainer. And then I am back under the water fighting against every instinct in my body.

I realize that I'm standing on the bank, unsure of how I got there. My skin is itching profusely like the water is poison. I stare down at the small waves lapping up at land I'm standing on. I instinctively turn to leave. Then I stop and force myself to turn around again, facing the water. I take a step forward, my mind blank, my lungs inhaling panicked breaths. My mind goes back and forth screaming at itself. My hands are shaking when I hold them out in front of me. I can hear a voice in the back of my mind which brings back different memories, a man's voice that makes me feel warm, and calm, and safe.

"Bucky," it whispers. "Jump, don't be afraid, I'll catch you. I won't let anything bad happen to you. It'll be fun, I promise."

I clench my fists and raise them. I dive again. The water feels cold this time, closing off my airways, freezing my muscles. I lay on my back at the bottom of the pond. Small rocks and pebbles poke me through my clothes. I open my eyes and gaze up at the rays of sunlight that have been able to penetrate the murky surface. My metal arm clenches against the water trying to leak in.

I blow out the rest of my air and relax into the burning sensation in my lungs. I stay there until the water above me ripples and someone crashes into the water next to me. I immediately push away, my fighting instincts kicking in. I push up to the surface, aware that I can't fight without filling my lungs again.

Just before my head breaks the surface a thick arm wraps around my neck. My hands fly up, trying to dislodge the arm. My vision begins to cloud and I can feel myself begin to slip away, the urge to breath almost forcing me to open my mouth. The arm pushes my head up and I take a breath that ends up being half water. My left elbow swings violently trying to catch my captor in the stomach. It hits flesh and I head a grunt from behind me. Disoriented I swing my head back hard in an effort to dislodge my captor but he takes that moment to throw me onto the bank with surprising strength. I crack my head hard on the bank and stars flash in my vision, leaving me blindly flailing and coughing water.

"Son, you look like a fish out of water."

I look up to see an older man climbing out water next to me. I push myself to my feet, still gasping, and stare at the man across from me. He's about sixty with salt and pepper hair and a short wild beard. He's a little heavy in the stomach and is currently soaking wet, shaking his head like a dog.

"What're you tryna drown? Are ye?" He asks in sloppy english, his dark eyes twinkling. I remain still, staring at him unsure of his intentions.

"Well son, why don't you come on back to my house. It's right over there, get you all dried off. Come on son, I ain't gonna bite you."

He begins to walk away from the pond, clapping me on the shoulder on his way past. I stare at his back before making up my sluggish mind to follow. My feet squish in my sneakers as I jog to keep up with his fast pace.

We arrive at a wood cabin where two other men are arguing over something. I am more concerned with the rifles laying at their feet.

"Jimmy, Caspar, come see the fish I pulled in," says the first man.

The other two circle round, one a little younger than me with brown sun streaked with gold and green eyes. The other man is older than the first man with curly white hair and a long white beard that complements his clear blue eyes.

"Hi," I say waving awkwardly.

They all laugh as though I've said something really funny. One by one they introduce themselves. The first man who assaulted me in the pond is named Pat, his son, the younger man is named Casper, and his father, the older man is Jimmy. They usher me inside and offer me clothes and a bathroom to change in.

I return to the porch outside to find all three of the drinking. Somehow I get pushed into a chair and a cold beer is thrust into my hand.

"So son, tell us your name," Pat says, reclining farther into his folding chair.

"Uhh, James," I say, staring aggressively at the beer in my hands.

"Once," Jimmy rambles sounding decidedly drunk, "I was called James." He laughs as though this is the funniest thing he's ever heard.

"Come on son," Pat says, nudging the beer in my hands. "Drink up."

Tentatively I lift the bottle to my lips and tilt my head back. The liquid hits my lips and enters my mouth, stinging the skin and taste buds. The smell hits to my nose and suddenly I'm in the dark room. The smell of alcohol sets fire to the hairs in my nose, smoke wafting around my head. The man on the other side of the bar leans back, his greasy hair flopping in his face. I brush past a table and the man on the other side. As I do I feel his hand brush mine and a piece of paper is transferred and held held loosely in my fingers. I step out of the bar to the dark alley behind. I unfold the paper scroll. On it is an address, a name, and a description. _7734 Odision Drive. Marcus Overy, white male, 6'2, Dark hair and eyes._

I walk down the street toward the house. I look up and as I walk I see her. The flash of the gun as she tucks it into her waist band, the glint of her teeth as she smiles a sweet smile, the glitter in her green eyes as she brushes past me clipping me in the hip.

"Hey soldier," she says. Then she leans closer. "Hail Hydra."

And she was gone, she feet clicking on the concrete, that flash of red I wasn't sure I'd seen disappearing into a sleeve. She smirks at me over her shoulder, and my blood chills as I am absolutely certain that this girl was not an agent of Hydra, she was an asset.

I blink back to where the bottle was still pressed to my lips. I quickly swallow trying not to choke on how much I've taken. I take a moment to realize that the normal flashback symptoms aren't present, thankfully, and the three men sitting around me have no idea what happened.

"So," Casper leans forward. "Tell me about the tattoo."

"What tattoo?" I ask, thoroughly confused. Casper gestures to my metal arm and I realize for the first time that it's out in the open.

"I always wanted to get one. Never seen one that sick before. Can I copy it?"

"Um, well it was kind of an accident."

"Sick," Casper says. "That kind of accident ain't never happened to me." I nod, slowly trying to act normal.

"Uh-hu."

"So son, where are you from?"

"I own a house." I pause and gesture to the woods in front of me. "That way, I think."

"Haven't seen you before, Son." Pat says, slapping down cards on the table. "You play?"

"Um, no, I don't think so." I stand up. "I actually have to go, someone's waiting for me." Casper bounces in his seat like he wants to come with me.

Jimmy leans forward. "You ain't runnin from us, are ye boy?"

"No," I stall. "I gotta, gotta get back to my girl."

Casper bounces more like he really wants to come now. Jimmy leans back and grins lighting a cigarette. He waves his hand.

"Off with ye."

I give a small smile, and walk towards the direction I'm pretty sure I came from. I have to control my legs to keep from running away from the cabin.

It takes me a full three hours to find the road. I blame the time I spend under water for my lousy sense of direction as I can't seem to decide with direction leads back to my house. I pick a side and walk for about 45 minutes until I hitchhike and am told that I've been heading in the wrong direction. The driver is a little old lady who tells me about a hundred times that I smell of alcohol and smoke, but all I see is those green eyes. I see glimpses of other things to weapons, plans, that were never carried out. Other assets who had missions not so unlike mine. Names that I didn't see on the list of casualties I looked up two months ago to keep myself sane.

The sun is setting when I finally stand in front of my door, reflecting how different the day has gone from the way I planned. I push the door open, to see Daisy stepping out of the bedroom dressed in the S.H.I.E.L.D. suit she was wearing when I brought her here.

"Your leaving?" I ask my mind working with the possibilities I haven't yet decided on.

"What? You thought I'd stay?" She snorts, not really looking at me. I look at her, trying to formulate what to say next.

"Why'd you start working for S.H.I.E.L.D.?" I ask, moistening my lips. She looks taken aback.

"Alot of reasons, helping people-" She begins, but I cut her off.

"I need," I take a breath. "I could use your help. You know if you're looking for something to do, someone to fight. That is why you got shot, right?"

She crosses her arms defensively.

"I can kick your-" She starts and I cut her off again.

"That's why you fought Hydra, right?"

"And how would you know I fought Hydra?"

"Don't all S.H.I.E.L.D. agents fight Hydra?" I roll my eyes at the incredulous look she's giving me. "I mean the ones who aren't traitors?"

"Look Jimmy," she says, stepping closer to the door, but all I can think about is old, drunk Jimmy I met today. "This has been fun, thanks for saving my life and all but I'm leaving now. Good luck with the rest of your life and all that."

She steps past me toward the door. I turn around and staring at her back receding into the dark.

"I was the Winter Soldier," I hear myself say, my voice hoarse.

She stops.

"I can barely remember who I am sometimes, but other times I feel so clear. I can feel the important stuff. My mind, it's getting better everyday, and there are things from the Winter Soldier days that I'm just remembering. Weapons left in the field. Dangers I can still prevent. I think maybe that's the path. A way to the redemption I've been looking for."

I study my shoes. My heart is pounding out of my chest. The fear of a new disaster, an overlooked threat I can stop. I can feel other memories floating in my mind, glimpse slivers of faces, weapons, missions, and names. For the first time in a long time I am one hundred percent certain of something.

"So, if you want," I say. "I'll let you on board. Maybe you can find your redemption too."

There are things from the Winter Soldier days that I'm just remembering. Weapons left in the field... Dangers I can still prevent. I think maybe that's the path... A way to the redemption I've been looking for.

\- Bucky Barnes


	9. Daisy 5

I twist my hand on the couch underneath me. A nail finds a scabbing cut on my hand and forces its way underneath the newly forming skin, pulling it off and letting the blood roll down my wrist. I lean back against the pillows behind me, my bandages wrinkling under my shirt, pain briefly shooting through my wounds.

I cross my arms across my chest, whipping the blood on my wrist off on my sweatpants. I give my best Melinda May stare across the coffee table at the man on the other side. His clothes are stiff, giving proof of a swim and dirty as though he has rolled in mud. His shoulder length hair is still drying and falls strangely in his unshaven face. He doesn't look like the man I remember from my hazy fever dream where I questioned his sanity.

His eyes are bright, exploring mine to understand what it is that is so important to him. He is leaning forward on his seat as if he can't stay there anymore.

"So," I say. "Just to be clear. You want me to join you in hunting down old Hydra assets?"

He nods.

"Why?"

"Well I'm going. I don't really care if you're going. I was just being nice."

I glare at him some more, my conscious battling itself. He looks down at his shoes.

"And I did save your life."

"You don't know anything about me," I say, studying his face as I struggle to make up my mind.

"Most of Hydra knows me on sight, and I did save your life." he says.

"What if I didn't want to be saved?" I ask.

"Well, then I'm very sorry you didn't want to be saved." He shoots back.

I glare at him more. Deep inside I feel that stirring I felt when I decided to commit myself to S.H.I.E.L.D.

"When do we start?" I ask.

Bucky grins at me, leaving me with a melancholy feeling thinking that that was how Captain America remembers his friend.

"Tonight, we'll leave for Brooklyn," he tells me.

"Okay, why Brooklyn." I ask.

"A while after the war Hydra went there because it was where Steve was from. I'm thinking we might find a lead."

I shrug it's not much of a lead but taking out the rest of Hydra seems more important than busting bank robbers. I stand up, glancing down at my oversized sweatpants and borrowed t-shirt.

"Come on," I say, brushing past his chair.

"Where are you going?" he asks, surprised.

"I'm going to buy some clothes for our trip, you are going to get a haircut."

He looks at me purely offended.

"You look like a caveman, that's not gonna go over so well in Brooklyn."

"But," he looks like a little kid when he casts his gaze on me. "Please no?"

I get the feeling that he is instantly regretting his decision to invite me.

"You have a car?" I ask, swinging my head around the kitchen wall.

"No," he says sulkily. I glare at him more.

"I'm wearing your shoes," I call, realizing that I don't have any.

He grunts.

"I'm also planning on spending your money," I say, checking my pockets.

He groans.

The walk into the town in uneventful. Neither of us speak the whole walk there. I spend about ten minutes avoiding judgmental stares and gathering the clothes I need to stalk old Hydra assets.

"Haven't seen you around here, honey," says the lady at the register, who looks about my age as she puts my clothes in a bag.

"I'm just visiting someone, I'm afraid I didn't come prepared," I laughed merrily. She gives me a pinched smile.

"So happy we could help."

"Thanks, sweetie," I say. It comes out more sarcastic than maybe it should have.

I slip into a public bathroom and change my clothes, leaving the old ones in the garbage. I brush out my tangled hair and apply some makeup to hide the dark circles under my eyes and the still healing bruises on my face. I add mascara and a small winged cat eye, hoping I won't sweat it off in a fight later.

I meet Bucky in the center of town. While I was getting clothes he made the rounds and two backpacks sit at his feet filled with supplies. He stands up when he sees me his arms crossed definitely.

"I am not cutting my hair off," he says.

I raise my eyebrows. "I am following you blindly into a fight where I could possibly die. The least you could do is make it easier to blend in by having a manageable haircut."

"Did I mention that I saved your life?" he asks weakly.

"Yes, an obnoxious amount of times," I say, grabbing a backpack and heading toward the nearest hair cutting place. He drags his feet as he follows me.

Ten minutes later I sit in the waiting area hiding my face with a magazine. My eyes peek over to see Bucky's hair falling to the floor, and my mouth twitches uncontrollably as I try to keep myself from laughing at the look on his face. He glares at me.

I pay at the register and we walk outside. Bucky has a forlorn look on his face like he's lost something. I can't help but notice that the lady cut his hair the way it was before the whole Winter Soldier thing. I bump him with my shoulder.

"Aww, you're a looker," I say.

"I don't forgive you," he says glaring some more. "You look like every S.H.I.E.L.D. agent ever." I look down at my blue jeans, brown lace up combat boots, black t-shirt, navy zip up sweatshirt, and dark brown jacket.

"Thanks, so what's our next move?" I ask.

"You mean you don't have it all planned out already?" he asks, running his hands over his new hair.

I open my mouth. "Well," I start, but he holds his hands up and cuts me off.

"I was being sarcastic," he says, sounding exasperated. "I rented a car. We're gonna drive to the nearest airport which is about four hours away, I bought tickets on the overnight flight to Brooklin."

"My plan would be better," I tease.

"I have no doubt. Also I'm driving."

I race to catch up with him.

The car Bucky rented is small and filled with empty bottles and trash. I wrinkle my nose at the smell as I try to fit my knees in the cramped space under the dashboard of the passenger, still grumbling about not driving.

"So when we get to Brooklyn do we have a plan? Or are we just gonna walk around until we meet some Hydra agents?" I ask, giving up fitting my legs under the dash board and allowing them to sprawl on top. Bucky raises his eyebrows at me.

"You comfortable?"

"Hey, it's not my fault I don't fit in your car, which sucks by the way," I say, still squiggling to find a comfortable position to stay in for the next four hours. He rolls his eyes.

"It was cheap."

The rest of the ride is quiet. I dose, my face pressing into the door.

We stumble into the airport. I rub the side of my face to find deep sleep marks, so I try to fix my hair as we wait in line.

"Yeah," Bucky looks at me. "You might want to let me do the talking."

I punch him in the shoulder, my knuckles protesting at his muscular shoulder. He's grinning when I look up. He runs a hand through his new hair and I notice for the first time that he's wearing gloves to hide his metal arm. It's funny how easily I could forget that it was there, metal and oil instead of flesh and blood.

"I'll be right back."

I slip out of line and head into the store. I pick up a couple candy bars, essential for fighting Hydra, most of which I pay for, and the most touristy hat I can find. As I open my bag to put them inside I notice that Bucky's packed my suit. I smile to myself. I also buy two phones, the oldest make I can find and some pain killers. Mostly though I just needed to walk around, stretch my legs, warm the stiff joints, and work feeling back into my muscles. I return to the line, flopping the hat on Bucky's head.

"There now you really fit in," I joke.

"Really? Haven't you tortured me enough?" He groans.

"Trust me, Jimmy," I say, "The last thing we need is someone to realize you're a hundred year old war hero from World War two. I wouldn't be able to keep the girls away. Probably still won't." I pull the hat lower on his face. He bats my hand away, and hands me a passport.

"Tina Washington?" I ask.

"No time to be picky." he says.

I shrug, it's not the worst name I've gone by in my time after S.H.I.E.L.D.

"Ryan Hughes." I read off his passport. I hold out my hand. "Nice to be traveling with you."

We make it

on the plane and sleep most of the way. The airport in Brooklyn is much bigger and busier than the one we came from. It's easier to get lost in the crowd. I grab Bucky's hand and pull him through the masses of people and out the doors. The city is huge and the energy seems to fill me with life.

"So where to now?" I ask. "Where'd Steve grow up? It's probably like a museum now."

I look back at Bucky to find him in a state of shock. I shake his arm. "Jimmy? C'om we made it this far, let's go." I wave my hand in front of his face.

Eventually he shuffles his feet and I pull him behind me. We tour a museum, and I try to soak everything up. By the time we are done we have an address for Steve's old house. Unfortunately it's getting late, and while I'm in favor of breaking in, Bucky doesn't seem capable of functioning any longer so we get a hotel. I'm so used to being alone it odd to hear his snoring in the background as I drift off. I reminder that I'm not here for me anymore I'm here for him. Just like I was there for Coulson.


	10. Bucky 5

The darkness is like a hole that swallows me. It fills my ears with it's silence and my nose and mouth with its nothingness. At first its calm, soothing almost, but then it chokes me.

For so many years my mind has been flooded with noise, always moving, always fighting. The opposite is unfamiliar to my conditioned mind. It makes me realize how tired I am.

My muscles release, aching deep inside with the strain of holding on. I float in the abyss, and, slowly, feeling begins to return. I can feel the worn cotton beneath my fingers, the sensation of pins and needles spreading down my left leg. The fingers of my metal arm twitch and I can feel the mechanical joints cracking under the surface. My eyelashes tickle my cheek as a gentle breeze blows across my face.

I peel my eyes open, freeing them from the crust that has settled over them. I stare at the ceiling, focusing on the long crack that splits the drywall over me. The sound of car infiltrates my hearing, the television is on, and someone is chewing too loud.

I push myself up on an elbow and blink through the sunlight. Daisy is sitting on the bed opposite me, food spread out in front of her. She's wearing new clothes. Fresh washed out denim jeans, a college hoodie for the University of Connecticut, and sneakers. Her short hair has been washed and bounces merrily around her face. The healing bruises on her face are almost completely hidden by a fresh appliance of makeup. She looks over at me, her mouth full of food.

"Good morning," she says, her words slurred by food.

I blink at her, taking in the standard hotel room. The multicolored carpet that instantly hurts my eyes, the desk that is too small, with a chair so sat on that the padding has almost completely worn out, the mirror leading in the short hallway to the bathroom that is supposed to make the place seem bigger, but really it just gives you your reflection too many times.

I try to gather my thoughts, Brooklyn, Steve. It's important, but all I can think about is Daisy chewing in my ear.

"You chew really loud," I say in lou of the speech I should probably give to portray my leadership skills.

"You drool when you sleep," she fires back. I open my mouth to defend myself but she's faster. "And don't get me started on your snoring."

She takes another bite of waffle drenched in whip cream and maple syrup and throws a brochure at me. I barely react in time to catch it before it hits me in the face. "We are gonna start at the house that Steve grew up in, which by the way is a museum. If we don't find anything we can go to his school, old hide outs. I don't know if those are accurate, maybe if this doesn't work we can go down to that military camp he trained at. I heard it's abandoned now so we'll have the run of the place, that should be nice."

I open my mouth to respond, but then close it again. "Okay," I say, flopping back on my pillow.

"So get up," Daisy says, throwing a pillow from her bed at me.

Twenty minutes later we are walking down the busy city sidewalk toward Steve's old house. My shoes scuffing on the sidewalk remind me of those beat up dress shoes I was supposed to keep nice but I had failed to miserably. They had been brown with black laces, shiny when I'd first gotten them for Easter church, then rough as though they had been rubbed with a rock, the top pulling away from the bottom at the toes so my feet were always wet when it rained.

My muscle memory still remembers these streets, even after all these years. I remember racing up this street, my bag of school books slapping against my legs, the dust from the road coating my skin. It was just far enough for sweat to begin to form on my hairline and upper lip. Steve was always there first at the intersection two blocks away from the school. I could almost see his slim form almost visibly shaking in the slight wind, his head bobbing, checking the corners for bullies to jump out of. I can still see the smile that would light up his face when he'd see me, how his shoulders would relax, and how I would sprint the last few feet to my best friend.

When I consciously return to the present my feet are planted in the same place his used to be. Daisy is talking, but I don't know what she's saying. I can almost see the older car models instead of the shiny new cars that speed there now.

"Hello?" Daisy waves her hand in front of my face. She stares up at my blank face. "When did I lose you?" she asks incredulously.

"You never had me?" I say, wincing for the reprimand that is sure to come. "Sorry."

"You should be," she says and keeps walking toward Steve's house.

I jam my hands in the pockets of my jeans and match my stride to Daisy's. I try to put aside the past that has been gone for so long, but now feels the need to return.

"We missed the turn," I say, slowing to a stop.

"What?" Daisy asks, distracted. I point at the street we are just past even with to the right.

"Steve's house is that way."

She stares at me.

"You remember being a kid in Brooklyn?" Daisy asks quietly

"Somewhat," I say, unsure of what to say. "I know that Steve's house is that way."

"Did you live around here?" Daisy asks in a casual way, which informs me that the question is anything but casual.

"Three blocks that way," I say, pointing back in the direction we came in.

"So all those maps I read, I didn't need to because you know your way around?" Daisy shakes her head. "You gotta tell me these things, Jimmy."

"I don't like it when you call me Jimmy," I say.

"I'm sorry, Jimmy," Daisy answers, evidently deciding not to pursue the conversation of my past. I am grateful. I would rather figure things out in my head than struggle through mumbled words until I find the right ones.

Standing in front of that house does something to my brain. Warmth seeps through my skin until I feel as though I am burning. Daisy looks up at me and then back at the house.

"Are we gonna go in?" she asks. "Hello?"

She waves her hand in front of my face. She grabs me by the arm and pulls me over to a bench in front of the house which is now a museum with people bustling around. We sit there for a while.

'So are we just going to sit here? I mean I'm not complaining or anything but this was your idea." She looks up at me.

"It's just so weird being back here. It's like I can see and hear people from before Hydra. It reminds me how happy I was."

"You can be happy again."

"I think that's the most hypocritical thing that anyone's ever said to me."

"Do as I say, not as I do, Jimmy."

I roll my eyes.

"Oh, the attitude's back," Daisy says, standing up and pulling me with her. "Come on."

She loops her arm through mine, and we walk together.

"Aww baby Steve was really cute. Jimmy? Jimmy?" She tugs on my arm. "Again? Really? Honestly I can't take you anywhere."

My fingers are freezing. Ice is spreading through my body. My vision goes foggy around the edges. Suddenly I'm not standing in the museum anymore. The colorfully painted walls that I'm sure are not original are replaced by cold steel walls. Alexander Pierce is standing in front of me a file in his hand.

"Howard Stark. I want him taken care of. He's driving to the airport tonight with his wife. Kill them both. Everything you need is in here."

He pushes the file into my hands. "He is responsible for creating the biggest threat that we've faced yet. But after tonight he will be another casualty of fate."

I'm back, sweat pouring down my face. Vaguely I can hear Daisy talking to my left. I stumble away from the wall. My feet take me upstairs. I push past people. I am hot and cold all at the same time. Daisy catches up to me and grabs my arms.

"Jimmy." Her voice is firm. "Talk to me, what's going on?"

"This was a bad idea," I splutter. She takes me outside and that's when I see her.

"Her," I whisper and Daisy follows my gaze. The woman stands across the street, brown hair flowing around her shoulders, big green eyes, a smirk on her face. Her hands are stuffed into a leather jacket, dark jeans tucked into combat boots. Her words from who knows how long ago ring in my ears. 'Hail Hydra'.

"I know where we're going," I say, beginning down the road.

"And where would that be?" I can tell that Daisy is getting a little frustrated.

"7734 Odision Drive."

"What's there?"

"A target lived there, and the last time I saw the address I saw that girl."

"You know," Daisy says settling into step next to me. "For a guy who doesn't remember anything, you remember a lot of things."


End file.
